by Tom Calen
Chapter Fourteen
On the second day after her departure, the rain finally ceased. The downpour had left a veritable marsh in its wake. The few cars still in working condition sunk to mid-tire in the drenched ground. Forced to continue on foot, Lisa had to fight for each step as the mud sucked greedily at her boots. Shelter from the storm had been found in the abandoned automobiles along the way, yet her pack still weighed heavily on her back from the water that had soaked through it.
Her absence from the hotel had certainly been noticed by now. She hoped the note she left behind, as ambiguous as it was, would be enough to keep Paul from tracking after her.
Dear Paul, she had written, There are things I must do before I can return to the team. I cannot explain my actions now, but know that I love you with all my heart and I will return to you as soon as I can. Yours, Lisa.
It had been brief as well as abrupt, she knew, but if she had told him more he might have tried to stop her, or worse, tried to join her in this mission. Even by leaving the note she had broken from her directives. She was amazed how little her insubordination had bothered her. Growing up in a military family, where strict would be a vast understatement, she had been instilled with the necessity of following a superior officer’s orders. While others pushed limits at West Point, Lisa had been considered an exemplary cadet, one expected to rise rapidly and high in her service to the country. Of her small group of friends at the academy, she alone had never been forced to “walk the area” as it was called, a laborious punishment of walking for hours to work off various infractions of the school’s code. By her last year, Lisa reached the rank of First Captain of the United States Corps of Cadets. Over the institution’s long and fabled history, only three women had preceded Lisa as Brigade Commander. That honor was only matched when she was named valedictorian of her graduating class.
It was that record of excellence that attracted attention from the heads of the Ira Project. With the wars in the Middle East, Lisa had assumed her post-graduate future lay in the desert. Yet when Adam Duncan, now Councilor Duncan, approached her about an opportunity to help change the future of military action, Lisa had been immediately intrigued. Her decision had not been made to avoid the hardships of war, in fact her family had a proud tradition of having served in every major American conflict, a tradition she had openly wished to continue. But Duncan’s proposal had, at the time, carried an overwhelming fascination for her. Her maternal grandfather, a decorated veteran of World War II, barely hid his disappointment when she announced her assignment at Fort Polk Army Base in Louisiana. Though she wished to tell him of the work she would be doing, Duncan had stressed the extreme confidentiality of the project.
Her first year with the Project had been spent analyzing, critiquing, and eventually developing deployment schematics for the armed forces. Considered somewhat of a prodigy, her opinions on military maneuvers, force-readiness, and soldier mentality had been highly valued by her superiors at the Project. Having never served in battle, Lisa had at first demurred when her insights had been sought. But, over time, she was made to feel a valuable asset to the team. It was during her second year in Louisiana that she had been introduced to the true goal of the Ira Project.
Lisa’s initial reaction had been an even blend of horror, confusion, and anger. Horror from the truly unimaginable creations that had existed but a few levels lower than her own office. Confusion from how her information could possibly benefit the deadly nature of the Project. And anger—anger from being used, from being guided into something as sinister as government-sponsored chemical warfare. Her immediate requests for reassignment had been denied. She even went as far as personally pleading with Duncan to allow her to leave the project. He had just stared at her while she spoke. His hypnotic eyes boring into her, coming close to derailing the prepared speech she was delivering. When he finally addressed her he explained, in that lilting Cajun accent which was every bit as captivating as his eyes, that she was too deeply enmeshed in the Project to let her leave. Though the words were well chosen and guarded, it was clear that any attempt on her part to leave would have deadly consequences for her, and her family.
Not one accustomed to fitful tears, Lisa had sequestered herself in her apartment for three days, an endless supply of wine and tissues her only companions, before Duncan sent for her. She was told to resume work, that her few days of seclusion were all that she was allowed. There were times she had been tempted to seek out higher officers, become a whistleblower of sorts, but Duncan had also alluded to a shadow chain of command that dissuaded her from trusting anyone but herself. And so it was with complete abjection that she returned to her position. Only a month passed—her anger and depression increasing to barely manageable levels—when disaster struck and the virus she had helped create, however peripherally, escaped confinement and tore apart the world.
As she continued to walk through the muddied woods, she ruefully examined how little had changed in her life, even after all had changed in the world. She was once again following orders from a man she hated in order to protect those she loved. When Duncan informed her of the mission that night in the library, she finally saw a chance to be free of him. She would deliver the data he sought, but not with the terms he demanded. And then I will be free, she told herself, though there was an edge of doubt in the thought.
Her more immediate concern, however, was seeking shelter for the night. There had as yet been no sign of Tils on her solo trek, though she had long since lost count of how many skeletal remains she had seen. Still, she was unwilling to risk a night in the open. Through the dense growth above her, Lisa could see the shifting of the sun, well into its daily descent. The car she had used to leave San Antonio had died not long after leaving the city limits. Since then she had travelled on foot, paralleling Interstate 10 which would eventually bring her to Houston. She kept a safe distance from the roadway, wary of what eyes might be watching. Another night spent sleeping inside an abandoned car was not appealing, but unless she found a house soon, a backseat would be her bed once again.
With the little light left to her, Lisa could just make out a large farmhouse no more than a half-mile from the southern side of the Interstate. Relieved at the discovery, she immediately angled right and encouraged her sore feet to carry her the short distance. She estimated covering twenty miles each of the past two days, though her legs and feet swore it was ten times as much. Compared to the attached row-homes she had grown accustomed to in New Cuba, the farmhouse seemed a mansion to her now. With one hand resting on the sidearm at her hip, she slowly climbed the wooden steps to the massive wrap-around porch of the home. Years of fallen leaves had stacked themselves high, and she cringed as they crunched beneath her feet. Various pieces of furniture decorated the porch, most severely damaged by years of exposure to the elements. In the far corner, a porch swing hung at an unusable angle as one of its supporting chains had torn itself from the rotting wood above. The screen door, its screens long since come loose leaving only the thin wooden frame, swung freely in the light breeze. Sliding the small field flashlight from her pocket, Lisa gently turned the knob and pushed the door open.
On entering, she heard the sounds of soft scurrying. Too small to be human, she dismissed them as the patterings of field mice that had likely invaded the home. The beam of light from her hand scanned the room several times before she moved beyond the door’s threshold. Like the porch, the floors were mostly covered in leaves, as were the remnants of furniture that stood in the large living room. The once intricate floral patterns of the upholstery showed signs of mice that could not resist the warmth of the cushions. What was not chewed to shreds had rotted years earlier from the damp mold Lisa could smell in the house.
The left wall of the room held a large fireplace, which was at first tempting, but she worried how much debris had collected in the chimney. Moving further into the home, she found herself standing in a substantial formal dining room. It reminded her of the grandeur of Gone wi
th the Wind, a movie her mother had loved but one Lisa’s youth had prevented her from enjoying as much. A mahogany cabinet, stretching almost the length of the room, held vast collections of decorative plates, figurines, vases, and assorted other items. She wondered if her childhood home had cost as much as the cabinet’s contents.
She entered the kitchen through a swinging door. Equally as large as the dining room, if not larger, Lisa marveled at the mix of antique and modern appliances; in one corner a wood stove, in another a sub-zero freezer. The home’s owners had clearly been prosperous, and she wondered how many of the miles she walked that day had been part of their land.
The remainder of the rooms on the first floor included what she assumed was called a “sitting room,” as well as a smaller dining room, a stately office with dark oak wood paneling covering the walls, and finally a bathroom that was at least triple the size of the one she and Paul had in Havana. The second floor was a collection of bedrooms and more bathrooms, with the largest of both found in the master bedroom suite. In one of the smaller bedrooms were the only set of windows that had not been broken, thus the room was in fairly good condition, with simple dust rather than leaves covering the floor.
Relieved with her Goldilocks find, she closed the bedroom door behind her, slid a heavy oak dresser in front of it, and began inspecting the bed. With no rain to reach it, the mattress and its remaining coverings were dry and in relatively good condition. There was some evidence of chewing on the pillows, but she readily accepted their comfort as she laid down on the bed. Exhaustion, previously held at bay, quickly overtook her and she found herself dozing and jumping awake several times before she forced herself upright. Undoing the laces of her boots, she sighed deeply as her feet were freed from the confinement. Placing her gun on the dust-covered bed stand on the right, she removed the MRE—meal ready to eat—from her jacket pocket. She had several stashed in her pack, but the packet of buffalo chicken had been nicely warmed by her body heat over the last few hours of her journey. While not gourmet by any means, the meal was palatable and, at the very least quieted her rumbling stomach. Drinking heavily from her camel pack of water, Lisa finished the meal and allowed herself to recline and let sleep take her.
--
Long trained as a light sleeper, it was the shuffling through the dried leaves on the lower floor that woke her. Turning her flashlight on, and to its lowest power, Lisa retrieved the weapon from the table and silently slipped back into her boots. Rising from the bed, the sounds of movement below stopped when her foot pressed against a weak floorboard and a creaking echoed through the house. Dammit, she cursed wordlessly. Frozen in place, she held her position until the footfalls began coming up the stairwell. She doubted the intruders were Tils, she would have heard their growls and grunts long before their progression through the leaves. Which left her assuming that she had taken lodging in an occupied home. There were no signs of anyone living here, though, her mind confirmed as she replayed her investigation of the home. She had closed the entire collection of doors on the second floor, so it was unlikely that whoever approached would come to her room first. With controlled muscles, she eased her foot from the creaking board, and cautiously made her way to the window. The roof of the covered porch sat just below, but Lisa doubted she could open the window with any amount of silence.
She wished the intruders would speak among themselves so she could gauge their number. The dresser blocking the door might hold back one or two men, but any more than that and she knew the blockade would be breached. Powering off the flashlight and working to regain her night vision, she made a quick inspection of the window casing. Even in the faint moonlight she could see the melted and re-dried paint that would give her away the moment she opened the window. The shuffling in the hall was not loud enough to mask any noise she made in the room. It was then she noticed that in addition to not hearing voices, there was another sound missing from the hall.
They’re not opening doors, she realized. It’s just footsteps out there, no turning of knobs, no sound of rusty hinges. Several of the rooms she had searched earlier had doors that when moved sent chills down her spine. Sliding her feet closer to the door, she stilled her breathing as she strained to listen. There was another sound, something familiar, something… Sniffing! As the thought came to her she pulled her head back from the door. Tils. Okay, that’s actually a bit better than humans. The door will hold longer since they won’t know what to do about it. Which means I can use the window.
Before she turned, a chill ran through her as her eyes focused on the adjacent wall. The previously rectangular frame of moonlight from the window was now broken with shadows. Spinning just as the sound of glass shattering filled the room, she drew the gun up and fired two shots into the Til before it fell dead to the floor. Without time to react, Lisa continued to aim and fire, aim and fire, as more Tils leapt from the porch roof into the window. The docile Tils from the hall abandoned their passivity and began slamming into the blockaded door. With each ram, she could hear the wood of the door jamb splintering. Her first magazine expended, she used the momentary pause in the onslaught—Tils were getting stuck trying to climb over their fallen comrades—to reload her weapon. I need a way out, she told herself. Slapping the fresh magazine in and chambering the first round, Lisa lunged at the bed, and heaved it on its side while pushing it towards the window. With muzzle to box spring, Lisa fired several shots as she braced the bed against the window. She could hear the Tils trying to claw through the mattress. Though it would not keep them out for forever, the reprieve allowed her to assess her situation, which did not take long. Four walls, no exit, Lisa’s internal voice commented. Doesn’t get much more basic than that.
The Tils battering at the door had succeeded in breaking the door jamb and she could see the dresser beginning to move, centimeter by centimeter, into the room. Barely fleshed fingers pressed into the gap trying to expand the opening. Sweeping her eyes across the room, she saw her pack and immediately abandoned the mattress-box spring barricade. Before the bedding fell to the floor, Lisa had pulled from the pack the thin silver cylinder Duncan had given her.
The ARC—an acronym for Acoustic Restraint and Coercion—would incapacitate Tils, or draw them depending on the setting. She had studied the device as much as possible before arriving in Texas. Paul had been so consumed with preparations for the rescue mission that Lisa had had ample time to familiarize herself with it. Based on previous acoustic weapons, the government had long been using similar instruments for riot control and crime deterrent, the ARC was calibrated to frequencies only Tils could detect. One setting would stir Tils into a deadly frenzy, while the other would quite literally force them to their knees. Lisa hoped that she memorized the device well enough to select the right setting in the darkness.
As Tils again began their flood through the window, Lisa took a hopeful breath and activated the device. Reflexively, she cringed as the device’s lights sprang to life before realizing that the sound was beyond the spectrum of healthy human hearing. Within seconds, the Tils in the room started to twitch and convulse before crashing stricken to the floorboards. The banging from the bedroom door also stopped as she heard several bodies slump to the floor.
Rising slowly from a crouch above her pack, Lisa held the foot-long tube in front of her like a crucifix warding off vampires. Swinging her pack over her shoulder, she cautiously crossed the floor and used her back to slide the dresser away from the door. The hall had indeed been filled with near a dozen Tils, though they seemed to pose no threat now. Turning back to the room, she made a steady progression among each of the Tils on the floor, delivering one bullet to the head of each. She performed the same task with those she passed in the hall.
Once out of the house, she found several more infected that had fallen from the porch roof after she activated the ARC. Though she doubted any would get far on the mangled limbs broken in the descent, she took no chances. With three rounds left in the third magazine, Lisa turned t
owards the interstate, and began the day’s walk many hours before the sun rose. Not until the road leading to the farmhouse was well out of sight was she calm enough to power down the ARC.
Chapter Fifteen
If Michelle believed Mike’s reaction at seeing the three on his doorstep was one of shock, it paled in comparison to Tumelo Sardina’s when he opened his front door to find Michelle, Erik, Andrew, and Mike’s small terrier Gazelle. Their haggard appearances caused him to usher them into his home without question, and he then proceeded to dote on them in his typical grandfatherly fashion.
“Por favor,” he had said. “Let me get you something to drink? To eat? Senorita Michelle, you are injured! Let me send for the medico! Mi querida, veni aca! My darling, come here!” he called out to his wife.
Why she and her companions had arrived at his door early in the morning, Tumelo did not ask. Instead he bustled about the small but tidy home fetching blankets, pillows, water, and an assortment of food. As Tumelo scurried, his wife entered the living room and harrumphed loudly when she saw who had disturbed her morning, before turning back into the kitchen. Michelle had tried to stop Tumi, tried to get him to sit and listen, but it was not until she sipped from her mug of strong Cuban coffee that the man finally paused in his movements. She was hesitant to tell him everything at first, but she finally decided that he deserved to know the exact danger she had placed him in by knocking on his door.
Without reaction, not a flinch or gasp, Tumelo sat across from Michelle and listened intently as she explained the events of the last week. Even Senora Sardina had angled herself back into sight as the tale unraveled. When she finished, Michelle let the silence hang in the room. As kind as Tumelo was, she very much expected him to usher her out of the house. Who wouldn’t? she thought. We’re putting them in so much danger! Tumelo simply nodded, as if his mind was still sorting the twists and turns of Michelle’s plight. Surprisingly, it was not Tumelo that broke the stretching silence, but rather his wife.
